|
      |
 |
The King in Yellow: Interludes |
| Il Re Giallo: Interludi | |
|
The only good place is a no place |
| New Good Place, No Place review available here. It's funny when the two bands someone compares you to are both ones you don't like. Maybe "funny" is not the right word. But--a favorable review, nonetheless. | |
|
The Three Scariest Novels |
| Song of Kali, Dan Simmons. A writer goes to Calcutta, taking his wife and baby along, to track down a celebrated poet who vanished eight years ago, presumed dead. He should have stayed home. Let's Go Play At The Adams', Mendal W. Johnson. A young woman babysits a group of children for seven days. On the first day, she wakes up bound to the bed. There are six more days. Johnny Got His Gun, Dalton Trumbo. During The Great War, a soldier wakes up in a hospital and slowly realizes that he has lost his arms, legs, his entire face, and his hearing. And that's chapter one. Runners-up: House of Leaves, Mark Z. Danielewski. An award-winning photojournalist discovers that his new house is a fraction of an inch larger on the inside than the outside. Soon, a door opens up in the wall where no door had been. What can a man do but explore? Deathbird Stories (Short Stories), Harlan Ellison. Forgotten gods die; new gods are born. We have reason to miss the old gods. To Be Continued Tell me the scariest novels you have ever read. |
|
|
Wind Whistles Through a Skull |
| Blue Sky Theory wins some praise from this reviewer. An earlier reviewer raised an interesting point when, with apparent confidence, he explained to his readers that the narrative was set entirely in a post-apocalyptic world. Though that is incorrect (technically, the world ends during the song The Smash), I would that it were the truth. Too many songs were nixed on the way to the final cut, and most of those were the post-apoc songs, making the album front-heavy with the pre-apoc. But who's to say the world hasn't ended, to a certain extent, before the first word is heard? Tomorrow, out of curiosity, I will read the album in its entirety, with new eyes, and see whether the reviewer was right, or whether there is any way to know for sure. I am tempted to re-imagine The Lionhead Nation as the proudest and least damaged realm in a ruined or quickly decaying world, the last mighty country, but a country rotting from the inside and surrounded by lawlessness and chaos about its boundaries. It makes perhaps a little more sense, then, why they would desire to make war with the remainder of the world's crumbling nations and establish for themselves an empire. If I could go back, I'd make this re-imagining evident. |
|
|
Thistleeden, the story | |
I am writing a story based on the lyric Thistleeden. Expect Dunsanian fantasy.
|
||
|
New thing |
        Added a stanza to Things. Thanks for your suggestions. |
|
|
The Things They Made |
| Things [Draft 2.5] John Moses Browning ascended to heaven Gripping in each fist a 1911 Muzzle-flash lightning and gunpowder thunder John Moses Browning at war with his brethren Alfred Nobel as a dead jester rises Clad in singed whiskers and sooty disguises Fuses of dynamite sparkle in one hand While from the other he offers us prizes Winchester's wife is entombed in her labyrinth Drowning her guilt in a green pond of absinthe Victims pursue her with slow, shambling vengeance Down on the ground floor and up on the seventh Poor Oppenheimer, his hunched apparition Kneels in the desert, bemoaning ambition Rips up his notes like a modern Pandora Shrinks from a dawn that reminds him of fission The things they made Now we're left with the things they made Harold P. Brown now presides over Hades Slumped in the throne he and Edison made He's lord of the convicts, his brass eyes electric Burn through the shackled men, shocking the ladies Mikhail Kalashnikov weeps in his tower A metal and wooden carnivorous flower Craning its neck over ten-million tombstones Every new death only adds to its power Poisonous mist clings to Fritz Haber's eyrie Barren the hills where he hides, grim and wary Wreathed in chlorine when he sighs like a dragon Broken and bowed from the shame he must carry John Moses Browning ascended to heaven Gripping in each fist a 1911 Muzzleflash lightning and gunpowder thunder John Moses Browning at war with his brethren The things they made Now we're left with the things they made |
|
|
Regretful inventors |
| I am writing a lyric about inventors who regretted having loosed their inventions on the world. So far, I have included Alfred Nobel, Sarah Winchester (though she felt guilty by association), and J. Robert Oppenheimer. Can you think of anyone I've forgotten? Thanks for the Kalashnikov suggestion, Moppy. EDIT: I'm also accepting applications for inventors who had little or no regrets, but whose inventions everyone else regrets. |
|
|
Throw me a line |
| Try as I might, I cannot find an adequate last line for the lyric entitled Terriblisma (http://primroseport.livejournal.com/6073 Here are the last three lines: How it almost looked like art when their city flew apart Like a painting of a sunset on the sea They were haiku on a page, mere catharsis on a stage [???] The rhyme scheme dictates that the last word should rhyme with sea. Loose or slant rhymes are acceptable. The line should follow the cadence of the "like a painting" line. It preferably should reinforce the notion of terriblisma. * The curator--that is, me--reserves the right to refuse service to anyone for any reason. (An immense tableau vivant of misery?) |
|
|
Triage |
| Triage [Draft 2] Take this, my splinted arm And add my weight to yours I'm a snail leaving a trail of slime I'm crawling on all fours Got the tunnel-vision of trench rats The solitude of the deaf My lungs are bags of mustard gas Can you smell it on my breath? I'm through with playing hopscotch Dodging mines on two bum legs I'm through with dancing foxtrot No more mumbling the peg I'm leaking like a colander Cork my bright wine with a thumb Bullets bored their keyholes red The stigmata of the gun The air sweats smoke and vinegar The earth rolls like a drum The sky deigns not to fall down It gapes motionless and glum I'm clutching at Old Slabsides And there's one left in the pipe I may ride it into heaven If salvation's overripe Take this, my splinted arm And add my weight to yours Let's slither between the salvos Let the triage run its course They'll cleanse our wounds with maggots They'll sew us up with thread They'll mummy-wrap our injuries And stretch us among the dead |
|
| Coverpage | Table of Contents | Proxemics.net | Soothslayer |